Lucky Break
Chapter Six - Learning Curve
Leo saw her again the following afternoon.
This time, he noticed her before he noticed anything else—which felt significant. Not lucky, not coincidental. Just attentive. As if his mind, having lost its usual shortcuts, had recalibrated around something quieter.
She was seated outside the café he’d visited the day before, at one of the small round tables that wobbled unless you learned their preferences. Her cane rested neatly against the chair leg, parallel, deliberate. She held a cup in both hands, not drinking, just letting the warmth exist.
Leo slowed.
There was a flicker of the old instinct—the expectation that something would smooth this moment for him. A dropped napkin. An open seat. A perfectly timed interruption that made things easy.
Nothing happened.
No assist.
Just the pavement beneath his feet and the choice in front of him.
He crossed the street, heart doing that irritating thing where it insisted on being noticed. He became aware of his breathing, of the sound his shoes made on the concrete, of how rarely he’d had to account for these things before.
Up close, her quiet beauty was not the sort that announced itself. It revealed itself gradually, like a room that only made sense once you stopped scanning for exits. Her face was calm, composed—not neutral, but settled. When she turned her head slightly, listening, the movement was economical, practiced.
Leo cleared his throat.
“Hi,” he said, immediately aware that he sounded like a man who had not rehearsed saying hello in a while.
She turned toward him, expression open but alert. “Hello.”
Her voice was lower than he expected. Warm. Measured. It landed without effort, which somehow made it feel earned.
“I—sorry,” he said. “This might be awkward. I think we were in the same café yesterday?”
A small smile appeared, careful but genuine. “I think we were. You were judging the coffee very intensely.”
Leo laughed before he could stop himself. “Guilty. It’s been a strange couple of days.”
She tilted her head slightly, considering him. “Strange how?”
There it was. The opening. No cosmic elbow. No safety net.
Leo felt the familiar urge to charm his way through—to offer a version of himself that had always been rewarded. He let it pass. The restraint surprised him.
“Mostly,” he said, “I’ve just discovered I’ve been outsourcing my competence to the universe.”
She smiled again, a little wider this time. “That sounds expensive.”
“It was a very generous contract,” Leo said. “Unlimited revisions. No accountability.”
She laughed—soft, unguarded. It landed squarely, pleasantly, somewhere behind his sternum. He felt the echo of it linger, like warmth after a cup is set down.
“I’m Leo,” he added, because names felt like a sensible next step.
“Ronise,” she said. “Would you like to sit?”
“Yes,” he said, too quickly, then corrected himself. “I mean—if that’s okay.”
“It is.”
He pulled out the chair opposite her, careful not to jostle the table. He noticed how she oriented herself toward him—not visually, but attentively. As if attention itself were a sense.
“So,” Ronise said, lifting her cup again. “Are you having coffee, or are you here to interrogate it further?”
Leo smiled. “I think today I’ll trust someone else’s judgment.”
He went inside, ordered, returned. The table wobbled. He adjusted it experimentally. Ronise noticed.
“Second wedge,” she said.
He blinked. “Sorry?”
“The folded receipt under the left leg,” she said. “It stabilises the table.”
Leo did as instructed. The wobble vanished.
“Impressive,” he said.
“Adaptation,” Ronise replied lightly. “You get used to reading the world sideways.”
He sat with that for a moment. “I think I’ve been reading it in bold print.”
They fell into a brief, companionable quiet. Leo became aware of how present he felt. Not performing. Not anticipating applause. Simply… there.
“So,” Ronise said eventually. “What do you do when you’re not negotiating with fate?”
“I host a podcast,” Leo said. “Which sounds more impressive than it is. Mostly I talk to people about how they ended up where they are.”
“And how did you end up where you are?”
He hesitated. The honest answer surprised him by arriving intact.
“By being very lucky,” he said. “And very careless with that luck.”
Ronise nodded, not judgmentally. “That’s a common combination.”
“I’m trying something new,” Leo added. “Paying attention.”
“That’s also common,” she said. “Usually after something stops working.”
He smiled, recognising himself in that. “You’re very good at this.”
“At noticing patterns?” she asked.
“At saying the thing without making it hurt.”
She smiled. “Practice.”
Leo found himself telling her a story then—not a highlight reel, not the viral moments. A small one. About a time he missed a train by seconds and ended up meeting someone who changed his week. How it always felt like life rewarded him for not trying very hard.
“And now?” Ronise asked gently.
“Now I miss the train,” Leo said, “and that’s just… it.”
She absorbed this, fingers resting on the rim of her cup. “That can be frightening.”
“It is,” he admitted. “But also oddly clarifying.”
She turned her face toward him, fully now. “Welcome to the rest of us.”
The words were simple. The generosity in them was not.
They sat a while longer. Leo did not check his phone. Ronise did not rush. The afternoon stretched without needing to be filled.
Eventually, she stood.
“I should go,” she said.
“Of course,” Leo replied, then added, “Would you—would you like to do this again?”
Ronise smiled, that quiet, luminous smile that seemed to come from somewhere inward. “Yes,” she said. “I would.”
She tapped her cane lightly, oriented herself, and walked away with the same unhurried confidence he’d noticed before.
Leo remained seated for a moment after she’d gone.
Not because he was stunned.
Because he was steady.
For the first time in a long while, nothing had gone right.
And everything had gone well.
If you’ve read this far, you are realising that this is a love story. Well, like John Lennon once said “Everything I write is about me and Yoko.”
Enjoy.